Lemon, Lime and Bitters
by smash interrupted
Summary: In the aftermath of the war, two fractured people come together after a decade apart... Post-MW3. Price/OFC.


**Lemon, Lime and Bitters**  
Chapter One

* * *

It figures that after ten years of radio silence, they'd meet again in this shitty little town.

Grace Linden is sipping an unsweetened cup of coffee - jokingly given to her with an aside of ' _black and bitter, ma_ _'am,to match your heart_ ' - when she spots him sitting across the way. For a long moment she simply stares, unintentionally frozen as she takes in the man who'd once been the love of her life. Captain John Price. A veritable legend of the SAS. He looks older, now - so does she, of course - but as she takes him in, it's obvious that the past decade had been kinder to her than it has been to him. Linden supposes that has a lot to do with his job. Maybe more so to do with the accusations of ' _war criminal_ ' that'd floated around recently, though those had cleared up quickly in the aftermath of the war. Not that she'd ever believed them.

Price was a patriotic bastard, through and through. Queen and Country had always been at the forefront of his mind, edging her out on his priority list. Linden had always said that the military was his first love, laughing it off whenever she'd followed up with an ' _I don_ _'t know if I'll ever be able to compete'._ Except somewhere along the line, it had started to become less funny. When she was at home and he was at war, and the stress of watching the news and wondering if the latest casualty in the headlines was him finally got to her. Not because she couldn't handle it, but because she couldn't handle it when all he would do was shrug and say ' _That_ _'s the job, love. It's what I signed up for. You knew that_.'

And she had known it, too. In the way you could mentally prepare yourself for something you thought you understood, only to realize two years later that toll it took on you was too much to bear. Emotions constantly running high, fear dogging every minute of every day. Linden hadn't been prepared to _lose_ him in the most absolute way there was, so she'd opted to lose him before it meant a coffin draped in the British flag, probably empty as it was lowered into the ground. Lord knew that if he did fall, there wouldn't be time to collect his body considering the type of missions he went on.

There'd been an engagement ring on her finger when she'd broken it off - now it hung around her neck as a memory. A choice that she'd made to protect herself. Guilt, but never regret.

Slowly lowering the mug from her lips, Linden starts to turn toward the doors of the boutique cafe. It's one of the few places still open on this side of Hereford - a majority of streets and businesses still closed after the chemical attacks several months ago. As she discards her coffee on a nearby table, she thinks she's going to have to find a new place to grind her damn beans. Because this? She can't handle this.

She'd loved him once with everything she'd had, but he'd loved his career more, and as much as she'd understood at the time, Linden hadn't brought herself to forgive. And despite the anger and judgment that had followed her in the wake of that decision, she knew she was allowed to hurt. To ache. To be heartbroken and pissed off, because relationships were made of two, not one, and for a long time it had felt like she was the only one giving.

Linden is pushing her way out onto the street when she glances back - snatching one last look before she carves that piece of the past out of her future - and sees something that makes her heart stutter-stop. Body reacting as though someone had just thrown ice-cold water all over her.

John Price is looking back.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

"Grace."

Linden grits her teeth, panic bleeding into frustration. She's on the sidewalk, about twenty feet away from her car, and after a fleeting pause as his voice washes over her - familiar and waking up memories she'd rather keep buried - Linden decides that there's only one way out of this. Only one way forward.

A grimace makes its way onto her face as she speeds up, pain lancing through her right leg. It's a story she doesn't tell often, but somewhere after John and before now, several bad decisions had fucked her life, her _leg_ , up, to the point where she walks with a limp, and a cane, and a scowl that makes people veer out of her path. Doesn't mean she can't blaze a trail when she wants to, but it does mean that this little show, right now, is a lost cause if Price really does want to talk to her.

And of course, he does. Because these days, the universe has made a habit out of giving her the short end of the stick.

"…I can outrun you, love," Price says - a warning, to help preserve her dignity. Linden almost wants to dare him to try - to see what he'll do if she does keep hobbling along.

Past experience has taught her, though, that trying to out-stubborn John was likely to be yet another bad decision to add to her already far-too-long list.

Coming to an abrupt stop, Linden spins around on her good leg, using it to balance as she pins her ex with an irritated look. "Ten years and you still can't take a bloody hint, can you, John?"

"Well I always knew how much you liked to spell it out for me." Up close, Linden can see sunken eyes and a nose that's been broken at least once more since they'd last seen each other. His skin - the parts not covered on his neck, his forearms - is an almost patchwork of scars that leave a sick feeling in her stomach. There's still a sharpness in his gaze, but something else that makes him seem tired, old - a level of loss that she's heard about, seen documented in various articles, papers, but forgotten to take into account. The glare on her face dies a little as his lips twitch into a wry smile - her presence bringing him at least something good, despite the barbs. _Fuck_ , does she feel guilty in that moment, that second. Maybe he'd just wanted, needed, to see a familiar face. "You look good, Grace."

She barks a disbelieving laugh - unable to stop herself. "I'm thirty-nine and crippled, John."

Price's gaze briefly flicks down, lingering for a second on the leg she can't seem to keep weight on - the one that noticeably quivers, and trembles, and threatens to unbalance - but he doesn't seem particularly concerned. "There's worse things to be."

"Obviously," she mutters, not denying it. "But this is my reality, and it's bloody _crap_."

"Pessimist."

"Oh, because _you_ were always such a _realist_ ," Linden says, rolling her eyes. A person squeezes past them on the path, and she shifts to the side, breath becoming ragged as another shot of pain eats away at her. She needs to pop some pills, but John's there and she can guess what he'd have to say if he saw her supply. She was carrying enough Vicodin to put down a horse. "You look terrible, by the way."

Better to distract. Linden doesn't expect much of a response, because John's always been a private person. Holding his cards close to his chest, even around the ones he loved. His emotional state had never been a willing topic of discussion, and she doubts he's going to say much about how rundown he looks. She figures she knows what's behind it, though. Lack of sleep, regret. Running through past events over and over and over again, trying to spot his flaws, where he went wrong, what he could have done to change it.

Linden isn't disappointed when John simply grunts, rolling his shoulders. Letting her concern slide off of him like water off a duck's back. Some people didn't change.

It almost hurts, how well she still knows him.

"Look," Linden finally brings herself to say, grip becoming white-knuckled on her cane. "I - it's good to see you, John. I'm glad you… came out of all that _shit_ alive. But I - I need to sit down, so I might…"

 _Leave_ _ **.**_ She wants to say. _Get out of dodge before I start to think I can fix you and you start to think you can fix me_. The sentiment in her voice is real - the lump in her throat annoyingly emotional, but the fact of the matter is that she still does love him. And maybe the day they reported him dead, she cried. And the day they reported that he was still alive, well... she cried _more_. She's glad he's still around. Always would be. But she has a life now, as pitiful as it is, and he hasn't been a part of it for a very long time - can't be a part of it, either. Or so she's telling herself. Because it hadn't worked last time, and this time, they have baggage and enough wounds to have shaped them into very different people...

Linden steels herself, trying to take the plunge. Working herself up to it.

She's not fast enough.

Opposite her, he's watching. Seeing the cogs turning in her mind. Price isn't stupid. He can hear her starting to pull away, retreat, and he looks at her the same way he used to look at her before everything blew up in their faces. _Don_ _'t you dare_ , Linden wants to say as he opens his mouth, but she knows it's useless. Knows the motto he's always lived by won't let him back down.

 _Who dares, wins._

"Can I get you a coffee?"

Linden shakes her head emphatically. "I've just had one."

"You left most of it behind, love," Price reminds her, observant to the last, dark eyes keeping her in place. "Consequence of running away from your problems, that."

"Jesus, John," Linden says, surprise leaving her bereft of any other emotion for a few beats. Honesty was a good quality to have, but its delivery needed to be a touch gentler. "Your ' _wooing_ ' needs work. Is that why you're still single?"

"Among other things."

"Sure," she isn't sure what to do - how to refuse when part of her wants to, but a part of her doesn't and he's standing right there. He's in jeans - a Henley shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hands are in his pockets, and his beard, his mustache are peppered with flecks of grey. Broad shoulders are relaxed, and he comes off as entirely casual, confident despite the situation. A man that'd earned his pride and ego, as chipped as it was right now. Linden can't exactly say that he isn't… _attractive_ , though she'd stopped letting the throb between her legs drive her a long time ago. So while John certainly was… _throb-worthy_ , it was something else that made her sigh. Something deeper that makes her give in. "…Well, at least you can admit you're a problem. I don't remember you having that kind of humility."

"Old dogs can learn new tricks," Price says, seemingly knowing he's won. "After you."

He moves so that she can limp back past him. Whether that's gentlemanly conduct, or his way of ensuring she doesn't attempt to bolt while his back's turned, she doesn't know. "They can also learn knew vices, you know."

Price falls into step with her, slowing down to stay shoulder to shoulder. "That so, eh?"

"Aye," Linden bumps him with her body, smirking in a way that's far more self-deprecating than cocky. "Fifteen minutes with me and you'll regret it, John. I've turned into a right bitch - you'll hear it from nearly every sod you meet."

John Price has never been one to back down from a challenge, and he doesn't now - holding open the door for her, expression softening. Like she's an injured kitten, not a rabid Pitbull with a bite worse than her bark. That kind of underestimation was endemic with the SAS lads, though Linden sometimes thinks that might be more because a rabid Pitbull _did_ seem like an injured kitten to men of their caliber.

"Sounds interesting," John says as she struggles through, devoutly believing he can handle it.

For that very reason, Grace Linden had to prove him wrong.

* * *

 _A/N - Here's an experimental attempt at romance fic. Feedback is always appreciated._

 _Please note that none of my other fics are on the back burner while this one is written. I hope to update them all equally. Everybody Fall and Sleeping Dogs are already in the works._


End file.
